


The Sin Inn

by niteynyx



Series: Nitey's Commissions [25]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Cock Worship, Cunnilingus, F/M, Facials, Gwent (The Witcher), Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Step-parents, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy, ball worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niteynyx/pseuds/niteynyx
Summary: With no other place to go on a dark and stormy night, Ciri and Geralt spend the night at the Sin Inn. They play a game of Gwent to pass the time, unaware that the succubus Geralt once killed there has left a permanent mark on the building. Anonymous commission, stepcest ahoy.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Nitey's Commissions [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896736
Kudos: 34





	The Sin Inn

Witchers were known in one of two lights all throughout the Continent. Either they were seen as magical abominations profiteering from the monster driven misfortune of common folk, or they were seen as glorious heroes whose deeds were bandied about by bards in the form of songs, epics and poetry. 

Most people leaned towards the latter. At least until they met a Witcher themselves and their opinion (usually) shifted, assuming the worst of the Continent’s monster slayers. That they took their ill-gotten gains back to some secret, fabulously wealthy abode where the eyes of common men wouldn’t sully their treasures.

Those people, the ones that assumed the Witchers of their world were greedy abominations benefiting from the horrors of necrophages, drowners, griffins and the like? They would be shocked and bewildered to see the famous White Wolf of Rivia and his ward, the Lion Cub of Cintra, in their present circumstances. 

Plain truth of the matter was, Witchers were paid handsomely to deal with other people’s shit. And they still had to deal with almost all of the same normal and utterly mundane shit the common folk assumed the rich and fabulously wealthy were immune to, through the sheer power of money and affluence. 

Not that they were wrong about that. Money can insulate a body or mind from many problems in just as many different ways, corrupt or otherwise. Although Witchers were indeed paid handsomely, the populace knowing just how well-compensated they were led to them being charged like the ultra rich for even their basic amenities, meaning that although Witchers were wealthy, they would blow that wealth in mere days, even living humbly. 

Capitalism. It is a vicious beast, far more ruinous than any dragon or vampire. Because everything was so expensive for a Witcher, they had to charge more and more for their services, only worsening and exacerbating their problems -- and nevermind the fact that so many Witchers did jobs for free out of the kindness of the heart. Or, for that matter, that many of them accepted jobs just for the exposure it would give them to other customers.

Never accept payment in exposure.

Now, you may now be wondering what the fuck any of this has to do with Geralt and Ciri. 

The two white-haired warriors were riding back to civilization after a successful griffin hunt, its severed head attached to the saddle of Ciri’s horse Kelpie, while its declawed feet were hanging off Geralt’s Roach. The trophies would have impressed anyone they passed on the road, but it was growing late. It was too late for them to visit the village’s alderman, who had assured them he would have their payment ready. It wasn’t so late that the dirt street should have been deserted.

That was the fault of the heavy downpour, soaking either of their oiled cloaks to their bodies. Their clothes were beginning to grow wet beneath them, so they decided to stop at the first inn that they saw. Its innkeeper took one look at Geralt’s feline eyes, did some mental math, then told him their last remaining room would cost roughly seven hundred times its normal cost.

And it wasn’t even actually their last room. They had four vacant ones, not that Geralt or Ciri would ever know that.

“Bullshit,” Ciri grumbled to herself even so, climbing back into Selkie’s saddle. “That’s a fucking ridiculous price for an inn room.” It was uncharacteristically vulgar of her, but it was a sentiment that Geralt wholeheartedly agreed with.

He agreed with a mild grunt as he mounted Roach, squinting against the rain as he considered their options. They could probably find ‘accomodations’ in a stable, but he was desperate for a decent bath and figured Ciri felt the same way. There were a handful of people in the village who might be willing to rent them a room for the night, if not let them crash for the evening -- but then they’d probably be expected to repay them with a favor. Also, they probably wouldn’t have a good bath tub for them to take turns soaking in.

That left the only other inn in the village, the Sin Inn. It had a sleazy reputation and it was probably the last place Geralt would normally take Ciri, but… “Any port in a storm,” he grumbled, spurring Roach onward to their best chance at a decent room, at a decent cost, with decent damn baths. “Come on,” he grunted, wheeling his horse about without giving the inn another look, unlike Ciri. “We’ll take our coin elsewhere.”

Ciri, feeling irritated, made a point of meeting the innkeeper’s eye as he peeked out the window, sure that the waterlogged Witchers were about to produce all the wealth in the world from their saddlebags. She flipped him the bird, something that  _ really _ should have been beneath a woman of her blood, then put her heels to Selkie and rode after Geralt.

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**An hour later…**

The Sin Inn was happy to room two Witchers for the evening at a modest, practically unnoticeable twenty percent markup. They probably could have charged the exact same premium the other inn asked and gotten away with it -- after all, what were Geralt and Ciri going to do at that point? Go back out into the torrential downpour? Definitely not. 

The only reason they weren’t paying an arm and a leg for their lodgings was because Geralt once cleared out the monster responsible for the sordid establishment’s name. Without a succubus preying on its patronage, the Sin Inn no longer hosted the nightly orgies and gangbangs in its common room that earned it it's sleazy reputation. That was years ago, but the reputation stayed intact. It was a good place for horny ne’er-do-wells and upstanding citizens alike to find a quick lay or even more debaucherous entertainment.

That was probably because the succubus’ magic had left a permanent stain on the building, so faint that not even Geralt or Ciri’s silver Witcher medallions could detect its effect or the subtle way it influenced their minds. If they had, well, maybe they would have braved the rain once again. 

Instead, they hit their respective rooms to wash the hunt off them before reconvening in the inn’s common room below them. 

Ciri was down there before Geralt was, nursing a tankard of ale at a table that was all too familiar to her mentor and father figure. As he neared her, he glanced down at the notch and mysterious stain surrounding it that he put there years ago. In fact, Ciri was sitting right where the succubus had been before Geralt had put an end to her. “Let’s sit somewhere else,” he grunted, picking up the ale she left ordered for him. 

“What’s wrong with this table?” Ciri asked, though she got to her feet anyway. He glanced back at her. She was right to question him, of course. The seats she had chosen were exactly the kind he taught her to look for years ago. Both of their backs would have been to a wall. None of the windows would have given a clear line of view to either of them, and Ciri’s own chair faced the door, all important things for a woman hiding from the Emperor of Nilfgaard. 

“Bad memories,” Geralt simply replied, before rapping his knuckles off the mysterious stain. “And I doubt they’ve cleaned the place since the last time I was here. This…” He rapped his knuckles again and made a point of meeting Ciri’s eyes, letting his tone grow blunt. “This isn’t ale, and it certainly isn’t blood.”

Ciri looked at the stain for a long, long moment. It was a bit glossy. A bit white. Then she slowly stood, scraping her chair back and picking up her own tankard. “Right,” she said, turning away from the table. “Lead the way, but good luck finding another table.” Surprise, surprise -- the Sin Inn was completely packed, with men and women in varying states of inebriation living life to the fullest. More than a few were acting if not moving in shifty ways, furtively getting off by themselves or with someone else. 

The Lion Cub rolled her eyes at the sight of one woman with someone very clearly hiding under her skirts, both because of the shifting misshapen lump in them and because of the two sets of shoes sticking out from under them. 

After a couple of minutes of looking, they weren’t able to find a table. But they were able to find a booth, albeit one without any form of proper seating, tucked away from the rest of the tavern but still offering a glimpse of the front door. Ciri frowned to herself as she set her tankard down on the high table, its surface just a few inches lower than her waist. “What a queer design,” she mused, folding her arms over her chest and considering the polished surface. Well-polished, well-maintained. “What do you make of it?”

Geralt simply shrugged. “Probably for a tall regular. Maybe they had a troll at one point,” he observed. It wasn’t abnormal for taverns to have differently-sized tables for differently-sized folk, like the gnomes and dwarves of the realm. It  _ was _ rare for them to have something so different for taller patrons.

“A troll in a tavern,” Ciri laughed, a bright and easy peal of noise breaking up her intense and sometimes gloomy exterior. “You can’t be serious,” she accused him. Though they were often assumed to be hideous monsters, trolls were more like exceptional toddlers. Stupid and exceptionally big and exceptionally clumsy and exceptionally destructive, but toddlers nonetheless.

It certainly  _ wasn’t _ built for trolls. The booth had been there when Geralt last visited the Sin Inn, but he wasn’t around for the succubus making extremely liberal use of it. There was a reason it was so well-polished and so taken care of. It was the one place where couples could tuck themselves away and hammer out a quickie without being furtive about hiding what they were doing.

“Knew one once,” Geralt said with a shake of his head and not a hint of humour; his expression made the mirth on Ciri’s face vanish, replaced by curiosity. The White Wolf wasn’t the kind of person to set up a joke, with a sense of humour all about well-timed, deadpan or dry comments. “Shupe. One of the best Gwent players I’ve ever met,” he admitted, taking a long swallow from his ale and allowing his mind to wander back to the card playing prodigy. “Had the largest collection of cards I ever saw, too, except he could barely hold them. Kept them in barrels. Not organized, just piled in. He would smash them on the floor and make a deck on the spot.”

Ciri stared at Geralt. He  _ really _ wasn’t the kind of person to bullshit like this. “You  _ can’t _ be serious,” she repeated.

“Never took a game off him,” he admitted plainly. “And I don’t think I could today, even now.”

“Okay,” Ciri said with a slow spread of her fingers in gesture. “Let’s say you did know a troll who played Gwent--”

“Shupe,” Geralt interjected.

“--that this Shupe really did exist, and could fit in a tavern to play Gwent--”

“He played in his cave, actually,” Geralt interrupted once more. “And before you ask, it was a dry cave. His cards were always in great condition before he started smashing barrels.”

“--that this Shupe played Gwent in his cave with you and whomever else showed up,” Ciri corrected once more with visibly mounting exasperation. “And he always beat you  _ soundly _ . Is it possible that Shupe was  _ not,  _ in fact, the greatest Gwent player of all time--”

“I didn’t say that. Of his generation? Without a doubt,” Geralt clarified.

“Geralt!”

“Sorry. Go on,” Geralt said with a wave of his hand, nursing his drink.

“Is it possible,” Ciri asked again, pausing to take a sip from her own drink and for dramatic emphasis before resuming her question. “That Shupe was not the greatest Gwent player of  _ his generation _ and that you are, in fact, shite at Gwent?”

Geralt eyed Ciri over the rim of his tankard, dead silent for several seconds. “We’ve never played Gwent before, have we?” he asked his ward hypothetically, full well knowing the answer. He lowered his ale and setting it aside on the booth’s table. “I’ve been playing the game longer than you’ve been alive,” he told her pointedly. His hand slid towards a pouch on his belt, tugging it loose and slipping his fingers inside to pull out a pile of cards. “And I’m always,” he said as he tapped his deck straight on the table, punctuating his words, “always ready for a round.”

“Have you, now? Are you?” Ciri asked with a smirk curving her full pink lips, leaning back against the booth’s wall and folding her arms under the curve of her breasts. “I’ve never seen you play before,” she pointed out, glancing down at the cards before raising her green eyes to meet Geralt’s gaze. “Haven’t even heard you bring it up before in conversation. Is this some kind of mid-life crisis?” she prodded, the twist of her lips growing more crooked and catlike. “Reinventing yourself, from Witcher to Gwent savant?”

“I don’t think you could handle the truth if I told you it,” Geralt told Ciri levelly, not rising to the taunting challenge in her voice and instead replying in kind, though not so directly. He shook his head and began shuffling the deck, making a point to flow from overhand to riffle and then the far more difficult Faro.

“Try me,” Ciri remarked dryly, raising her eyebrows. She wasn’t impressed by the shuffling; of course Geralt was good with his fingers. A Witcher had to be agile and dexterous. Of course that would extend to his digits. Card tricks had nothing to do with deck construction, strategizing or being able to execute on strategy.

“Fine.” Geralt shifted the cards from one hand to the other with a flourish, then set the stacked deck face down and ready to play. “Yennefer and Vesemir were certain that I would ruin Gwent for you, so they made me promise not to ever play with you.” How many years ago was it now? It was a little white lie, a twisting of the truth. Ciri was trying to egg Geralt on, so turnabout was only fair play.

The truth was, Yennefer and Vesemir made him promise not to play Gwent with  _ anyone _ in Kaer Morhen. Geralt was just too much of a tryhard at the game after spending a month trapped in a cave with the Gwent savant troll Shupe. He wasn’t fun to play against. Eksel quit and Lambert, well, Lambert never really got into Gwent in the first place because of Geralt.

Ciri narrowed her kohl-lined eyes. “That’s bullshit.”

“Told you that you wouldn’t be able to handle the truth,” Geralt drawled, laying his trap as though Ciri was just another one of the many monsters he had hunted throughout his long life. “Gonna prove me a liar, or are you going to keep acting like a brat who hasn’t ever played a hand herself?”

“Fine,” Ciri scoffed, procuring her own deck from her belt’s pouch and setting it down on the table. “But if we’re doing this, let’s make it interesting.” While she wasn’t bad at Gwent, Ciri didn’t enjoy the game enough JUST to play it, or just to rub it in Geralt’s face how awful he was.

“What have you got in mind?”

Ciri’s first inclination was to suggest the loser choosing between truth or dare. That’s what she always played when she busted out her cards, but most of her Gwent games were with one of her many girlfriends or boyfriends. The heir to Cintra and the Empire had a warm bed waiting for her in every village and city. Truth or dare with Geralt felt a bit -- juvenile, and beneath both their dignities. The white-haired beauty thought for a moment, then suggested a slightly more adult alternative.

“Loser takes two shots.”

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**Yet Another Hour Later…**

Eight shots later, Ciri was finally beginning to believe Geralt had played Gwent before. Maybe he had played it several different times before. The White Wolf was on his sixth, likewise corrected on any preconceptions he might have had about Ciri’s skill at Gwent. It was a great way for the two Witchers to kill the time, but now they were in too deep to just call it a night and wrap up the games. No, now it was a proper competition.

There would be no winding down, only ramping up. Another round ended. Ciri hissed out her frustration as she and Geralt scooped up their cards; she set them to the side in a disorderly pile while Geralt stacked his together and tapped the deck against the table until it was neat and ready for another round at any moment. “Bottoms up,” Geralt smiled, a faint but crooked twitch of his lips. Between his mutations and years of poisoning his poor liver, he could hold his liquor with the best of them.

Ciri had neither advantage, but her blood seemed to stave off the worst of the liquor. That didn’t mean it hadn’t messed with her inhibitions. “This shit tastes like horse piss,” she complained as she pinched one of several remaining poured shots on their table. “And that fucking-- that fucking trebuchet card is bullshit,” she added tartly, narrowing her eyes at Geralt as she staved off the inevitable.

“Mhm. Less talking, more swallowing.”

“Heard that one before,” Ciri muttered without a thought, huffing out a breath before grabbing the first shot and sending it down her hatch. She grimaced and made a face at the taste, but went on to slam the glass on the table and repeat the process with her next shot. It went down mildly (and only mildly) better, ending with a soft hiss.

“‘Heard that one before’, huh?” Geralt asked with a slight peak of his brows. 

Ciri blinked at the question, then quickly coughed and cleared her throat, trying to shake her head at the same time. She felt much more ridiculous than she looked, intent as she was on avoiding the question. “No, uh-- I’ve just-- you know,” she said, clearing her throat and giving her head one last aggressive shake, sending a few wayward strands of hair free from her messy chignon. “Been here before,” she said with a wave of her hand, the start of a blush flushing her cheeks a light red.

“Have you,” Geralt commented more than he asked, his pale eyebrows rising all the higher on his aged forehead, intent on fucking with his ward -- just a small bit of payback. “You said this was your first time here. Did you forget something?” he pressed, well awaye she wasn’t talking about the village or the Sin Inn.

“I-- uh… oh, fuck off,” Ciri stammered out before she abruptly snorted, having no intention of discussing  _ any _ of the cocks she had sucked with Geralt.

She ignored how stiff her nipples had gotten, unaware of how eagerly they pressed against the thin material of her shirt. The first thing she had done after getting into her inn room was slip off her brasserie, and she didn’t bother putting it back on for just hanging around the common room with her father figure. The soft, damp heat she was feeling in her pussy --  _ had _ been feeling in her pussy for several rounds of Gwent now -- was a bit harder to ignore, but she endeavoured.

Geralt was in a similar state. That succubus was getting her last laugh years later, not that either of her victims were likely to complain about it the next morning. They played another round, and then another. Ciri downed another two shots. The next round ended in their first draw; one shot apiece.

The white-haired Lion Cub of Cintra wasn’t ignoring her stoked cunt anymore, trailing her lusty eyes over Geralt’s powerful and agile body. She wondered what it would feel like to be like Triss or Yennefer, to have her softer body and curves pressed up against the White Wolf’s much more solid frame, to have her full bowed lips melded against his masculine mouth. Her tastes always trended towards more effeminate men and women -- for so many years, Ciri thought herself a lesbian. She learned better than that, but her tastes still leaned towards femininity more than masculinity.

With all the alcohol flowing through her body and the succubus’ lingering influence taking root… oh, she wanted to try something new. Ciri lifted her shotglass to her lips as Geralt did the same, watching him down his but only biting down on her bottom lip. “Hey,” she murmured across the table to Geralt, letting her voice drop to a more husky whisper as she stepped around the booth to squeeze in beside him. Ciri wanted nothing more than to swing her arms around his neck and rub up against him like a pussy cat in heat, but she held her composure. She couldn’t just leap into it. That wouldn’t be satisfying.

She planted a palm on the table and pulled herself up, perching on it and scooting before Geralt, his precious deck of cards be damned. They scattered across the table as she made herself not just comfortable in her perch. By some small miracle -- if one would call her natural grace and training a  _ small miracle _ \-- she didn’t spill a drop of her shot glass. “I’ve got a confession to make,” she told Geralt, letting her green eyes grow round as her voice dropped lower, her whisper quiet enough that he had to lean in to really hear her over the bar’s noise.

“Mm?” Geralt grunted as he stepped in close to Ciri, resting his hand on her knee -- letting her know that he had the exact same thing on his mind, however laconic he may be. His strong, callused digits slowly ran up to her thigh, squeezing the taut muscle there and appreciating just how supple it was with a softer grunt. He didn’t complain about his cards, even though some of them (particularly his Red Lotus) were worth thousands and thousands of crowns.

“I’m fucking  _ sloshed _ , and you’ve got to take this shot for me. If I do it, I’m going to pass out.” Ciri pitched her voice even lower, letting it become husky. Her eyes grew half-lidded, leaving no room to mistake her mood; they were clean-cut bedroom eyes, albeit in the semi-shielded corner of an inn’s tavern. The kohl rimming her eyes only heightened the effect. Slowly, she slipped the hand she was leaning on to her waist, briefly running her fingers along Geralt’s roving hand.

“That so?” Geralt murmured, showing no sign of backing off Ciri but certainly not leaping cock-first into her trap. “And why do you suppose I ought to do that?” he asked, his feline eyes sliding down to follow the trail of her fingers. Just in time, too. As her hand rose higher, Ciri hooked her fingers into the hem of her shirt and began to peel it up, slowly revealing inch after inch of her fair skin. The small scars that intermittently dotted her revealed hips and belly didn’t detract from her beauty as a woman. It only changed it. With the soft ripple of her abs, she was the prime example of a warrior woman, built for both combat and fucking with equal vigor.

Ciri’s fingers and the shirt’s hem only climbed higher and higher, patient and in no rush. Geralt took a step closer to her, not so much as a flicker passing his calm face. But with how close he had gotten to her, she could tell better. Of course, she  _ knew _ Geralt well enough to pick up on a hundred little different hints on his mood, hints she could only ever notice subconsciously. She didn’t need any of them, not with how his tented cock was pushing against her leg.

_ Fuck _ , Ciri thought to herself as her fingers passed over her sternum,  _ I want to feel that thing inside of me. _ But she wasn’t going to be impatient, as much as her pussy begged for her to spread her legs wide for Geralt’s cock. The shirt caught on the mounds of her breasts, and for a moment everything hung, suspense and sexual tension heavy in the air. Slowly but surely, the shirt slipped up her breasts until it passed over her nipples, revealing the pale pink and pebbled peaks seconds before they spilled out of her shirt altogether, full handfuls that begged for a hand to squeeze them.

She didn’t answer Geralt’s question until her shirt had been peeled up to her collarbone and she could once again lean her weight back on the spread fingers of her hand. “Here’s how,” she drawled out before sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. Ciri raised her other hand, lifting the shot glass up to her chest and tilting it, slowly pouring the small glass out. The liquid trickled down Ciri’s skin, running between her breasts and down along her belly. Although the first few drops of liquor were going to be wasted--

At least, anyone else would waste the first few drops of the impromptu body shot. Ciri was shocked by just how quickly Geralt bent down, the warmth of his tongue dragging over her smooth skin and making her gasp out in surprise. That surprise made her feel a bit stupid; she had known Geralt practically her entire life and should have known better. Witchers -- real Witchers, made mutants by alchemy and magic, weren’t human. They were beyond that. As the glass emptied, Ciri dropped the shot. It hit the table and then rolled to the floor, shattering loudly.

But in the chaos of the tavern, no one heard it. No one bothered to glance in on them. It was only the fourth glass to break that night and nothing worth investigation.

“Fuck, your  _ tongue _ ,” Ciri gasped out in praise, her now free hand going up to thread into Geralt’s hair as he quickly lapped up every bead of alcohol. Soon he reached her breasts and closed his mouth around one of her peaked nipples, tickling it with his tongue and shooting electric shocks through her body and straight to her cunt. She couldn’t stop herself from spreading her legs at that point, but with both of their pants on it wasn’t like she was about to take his cock in her wet little pussy. Instead, Ciri wrapped her legs around Geralt’s waist, squeezing to bring him in just that little bit closer, feeling the bulge of his hardon press against her desperate cunt. 

“Fuck my  _ tongue _ ,” Geralt echoed as he pulled his lips away from her stiff nipple, and right away Ciri was trying to push him back down, wanting to get his mouth locked around her needy nipple once more. He was ready and braced against her attempt to force him to do anything, but still met her halfway, turning his head to nip and suck at her neglected nipple until its interest was just as piqued as its twin. When he pulled away, his hands raised to grab at her shirt. “You’re not fucking anything tonight,” he growled. “You’re going to get fucked just the way I want you to, and by the end of the night you’re going to thank me for it.”

“That so?” Ciri whispered in challenge before swallowing roughly.

“That so,” he affirmed, low and purposeful.

Something in his tone made Ciri shiver. It was so primal, so… so  _ raw _ . She had never heard the like before, and she was sure nothing had ever made her wetter -- at least until Geralt made her gasp again. He ripped her bunched-up shirt wide open with a quick twist and pull of his wrists, and then ripped it again so he could pull its shreds off her body and toss it. Other than her cat-faced Witcher medallion, Ciri was left naked from the waist up. Geralt only took a moment to let himself play with Ciri’s modest breasts, squeezing them and tensing just how firm and perky they were. Her breathing quickened.

When that moment was up, he pinned her down against the table with one hand and reached behind himself. With her legs locked around his waist, he wasn’t going anywhere without forcing them apart. That only took him a second, and when he was free he took a step back and pulled at either of her boots, dropping them to the floor. Ciri sat up part way, resting her weight on her elbows as she watched Geralt unbuckle and loosen her belt, then begin pulling her trousers down. She helped as much as she could, lifting her hips. Silently, she mouthed what she wanted him to do with them -- off, off, off. Instead, he stopped with them around her calves before sinking down to his knees and scooting in closer to the table, ducking his head before resurfacing it between her thighs, his powerful hands spreading her until they were splayed wide.

Though Geralt was left face to face with Ciri’s sweet little cunt, his first observation wasn’t on the pale, carefully trimmed hairs guarding her pussy or how pink and delicate it looked. No, his eyes strayed to one of her thighs. “You’ve got a tattoo,” he observed, studying the black, red and green ink. It formed an artful rose. Whoever inked her was talented, but the ink was anything but fresh. “You’ve  _ had _ a tattoo.”

“Yeah,” Ciri mumbled headily, reaching down with every intent of grabbing Geralt’s face and forcing it to kiss her pussy. “Don’t make me wait,” she ordered him like the Queen she was meant to be, but no Queen was going to bridle the White Wolf any more than Yennefer had. He slid his hand up and grabbed her wrist, pinning it to the table as he set to work on exactly what she should have begged him not to do. He kissed her thigh and gently bit her soft skin, repeating the process up along its fair length, his stubble tickling her as he went. 

He got close enough that she could feel his hot breath wash over her damp cunt. Even though he just shut down her attempts to steer the night’s main event, she squirmed her hips, desperate for a particular kind of stimulation that he of course withheld from her. “Fuck,” Ciri hissed out as Geralt gently bit down near the turn of her thigh, sucking the skin. “Oh,” she whispered out again before the frictative once more came to her, more moan than word. “ _ Fuck _ .” When he pulled off of her, she knew right away that it was only because he had left a hickey.

“Come on,” Ciri whimpered, her squirming growing desperate. For a second, his breath was directly on her cunt again and she was so sure that she was about to get her wish, and of course he once again denied it from her. He set to work making another love bite just opposite of the first. Ciri continued to moan and whimper throughout, her toes curling. Her pinned hand curled its nails into her palm while the other raised to her breast, squeezing and playing with her nipple as she suffered so sweetly.

“Come on,” she whined again, and just like that Geralt’s mouth left her. Pure coincidence, of course, but when she felt his tongue first touch her pussy and begin to trace the shape of her lips, she was sure that she had uttered magic words. “Fuck, yes,” Ciri gasped out, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “Your fucking  _ mouth _ ,” she moaned, understanding why she had heard both Triss and Yennefer cry out so many times in the middle of the night. Geralt’s mouth was devilish, a more sure sign of his mutations than his feline eyes. The things he was doing to her with just the tip of his tongue amazed her.

And that was before he started to tease and tickle her swollen little clit with it. In any other tavern, the way that made her squeal out so raw and throaty would have drawn concerned eyes, but instead business in the tavern carried on as normal around them. “Geralt,” she cried out. “Oh, fuck. That’s-- yes, just like that,” she implored him, never wanting him to stop or change what he was doing. It was perfect; she had been eaten out by elves with devilishly long tongues before and they had nothing on the White Wolf, not with his decades and decades of experience. 

He changed what he was doing, and it only got better. Two of his fingers slotting inside her sodden pussy made her gasp out anew, an almost shrill and keening moan working its way out of her throat as his spelunking fingers pressed against her g-spot. None of those elves knew to do that to her. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned out again, unaware of how severely getting eaten out affected her diction. “Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck, Geralt!” 

_ Everyone should get to feel this, _ Ciri thought to herself, giddy and lusty at once. “Fuck… fuck!”  _ The world would be so much better if everyone ate pussy like this. Oh, fuck… fuck…  _ “Fuck,” she bit out again, her thighs tensing as she felt pressure build inside of herself. How long had Geralt been down there, fingering her pussy and lavishing her clit with much needed attention? It always took her so long to get off. It must have been ten minutes, maybe a little more --

No. Less than half of that. 

Ciri squealed out again when her orgasm hit, her toes curling so hard that her one clear thought was  _ oh fuck they’re going to break _ . Her thighs tensed and released wildly as her hips bucked without any purpose, frantic and desperate for more, more,  _ moremoremore _ . When it hit its peak, her legs fought to close around Geralt, but he kept her thighs splayed and only continued his assault on her pussy.

“FUUUUUUUUCK,” she wailed out in a long and lewd moan, dimly aware of that  _ one _ thing happening. Her head thumped down on the table and her hand on her breast stilled. As she panted for breath, it began to lazily trace over her chest and belly. High on cumming, she let out an almost mindless and certainly breathless giggle. “Oh, fuck,” she whispered to herself, her body suffused with fuzzy warmth. She really should have warned Geralt.

Not only did Ciri get  _ ridiculously  _ wet, but she was also a wild squirter. She giggled again. “Fuck, that was--”

“That was wet,” Geralt grunted as he ducked out of Ciri’s legs and rose to his feet. That wasn’t his ‘funny, ha ha’ grunt, either. That was the grunt Geralt let out whenever he was irritated. Ciri slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him, hazy with lust. The sight of him with her pussy juice coating his face made her giggle anew, even though she knew she was in for it now. She didn’t resist when he pulled at her trousers, tugging them down her legs and dropping them to the floor. Now, other than that damn School of the Cat medallion, she  _ was _ naked. 

“Oh,” she gasped out as he plucked her off the table with ease, grabbing her by the hips and sliding her down to the floor before him. At some point, Geralt had unbuckled his own belt and opened his trousers to wield his  _ real _ silver sword. Being put face-to-face with his cock made her eyes flare wide open. “Oh,  _ fuck, _ ” she whispered. She had heard both Triss and Yennefer and even Shani cry out about Geralt’s cock before. The man fucked constantly and like a rabbit, and she knew from all that screaming that he was  _ big _ , but  _ fuck _ he was  _ big _ .

For a moment, Ciri only sat there on her knees and stared at Geralt’s massive dick, her lips slightly parted and her amazement plain on her face. What the fuck was she even going to do with something that large? It had to be four or five inches longer than any other cock she had. Finally, words came to her, or at least a single word semi-appropriate for the situation came to her. “ _ Fuck _ ,” she whispered. Geralt snorted, then reached down to slide his fingers into her hair, drawing Ciri’s attention upward.

“If you’re not going to get to work…” Geralt muttered at her, pausing for a moment and giving Ciri a chance to do something with his dick, anything with his dick. That moment was spent staring up at him instead, lost with the wanton lust in her eyes. He eyed her for a moment, then grunted and shook his head. “Fine,” he said, grabbing his cock by its base and pulling Ciri’s lovely face a bit closer to him. He delivered a quick slap of his prodigious meat across her right cheek, clapping out loudly and making Ciri gasp out in shocked surprise. As she swung her face back, he brought his cock back across her left cheek. She gasped again.

The way she felt that second cock slap shoot through her body almost made her want to cum again, right then and there. She didn’t, of course, because that would be  _ ridiculous _ , there was no cock so good that being slapped with it could make a woman squirt again. 

Damn if she didn’t come close though, and damn if she didn’t come even closer when he took advantage of her open mouth and thrust his cock straight into her mouth, shoving his way along her wet tongue and into the tightness of her throat. Her eyes widened as Geralt pushed deeper and deeper into her throat, far past where she ever intentionally took a man and definitely past where she ever  _ unintentionally _ took a man. She raised her hands to grab at his thighs for support. Though her body begged her to pull away, she  _ wanted _ it, and she wanted him to feel every second of her throat gagging and squeezing around his length. Soon, her lips kissed Geralt’s pelvis, her nose tickled by the short white hairs at his base. 

Resting his other hand on Ciri’s head, Geralt pulled back and fucked her throat with a few short thrusts before beginning to pull out altogether. Senseless and horny, Ciri chased his cock with her mouth, not wanting to lose it for a moment, but Geralt had other plans. He pulled her head back until his cock could pull all the way free, then delivered another hard and fast slap of his cock across her face. She reeled but quickly recovered, grinning whorishly as she looked back up at her lover and mentor.

Geralt pulled one hand off of Ciri’s head and grabbed his cock by the base again, lifting it up straight while the hand still in her hair tugged her forward, presenting his hanging balls to Ciri’s sweet lips. “Come on,” he growled. “Get to work.” This time she knew what to expect if she tarried, and she was split between encouraging his rough use of her body and obeying Geralt’s every whim. She only hesitated a moment before darting in and putting her tongue to use on his balls, licking over every inch of them and leaving them damp. Then she took one of them into her mouth, sucking on it gently. 

Ciri slid one of her hands up Geralt’s thighs, tentatively reaching for his shaft. His hand slid away and let her take hold of it. With her eyes closed, the Lion Cub let the first ball slip from her mouth and went to repeat the process with the second one. As she laved her tongue over the wrinkled flesh, she busily worked her wrist, jacking off his hard cock. Now that she had it in her hand, she could truly appreciate its length, and  _ fuck _ it was thick.

When she heard Geralt grunt, she opened an eye and peeked up at his face. He had a look of pure focus and concentration on his face -- the look he had whenever he was on the hunt. It was so easy to understand why he had so many women enraptured, and why so many of them didn’t even seem to mind that they were sharing him with half the fucking Continent. She slipped away from his nutsack and lowered his cock to point at her face, smearing the mess of his mixed precum and her saliva over her face. “C’mon,” Ciri purred, slapping her cheek gently with his cock. “I came on your face. It’s your turn, isn’t it? Don’t hold back on me.” 

Geralt closed his eyes briefly and made a primal noise that made Ciri shiver. She parted her lips just in time to catch the first rope of the White Wolf’s hot white seed on her tongue, not that his prodigious orgasm was neat and orderly. Its wild spray hit her mouth and her cheek, painting both with wild white splatters. She giggled, giddy and high and drunk with pleasure and of course all those shots. As it ended, she took to nuzzling his cock, gazing up at Geralt with love and adoration. Entirely wanton love and adoration, but love and adoration nonetheless. “So, so good,” she whispered, expecting him to begin softening. 

She expected a respite, a break, and then maybe a round two.

She really didn’t expect Geralt to grab her and turn her, pushing her down to the floor. Ciri gasped out in surprise as he grabbed at her, manhandling the athletic woman like she was just  _ his _ . With her preferences, no one had ever done that to Ciri before -- but she found herself loving every moment of it, even as Geralt pushed her legs back and held them there, leaving her pussy completely exposed and vulnerable. “Don’t you-- need a moment?” she asked him breathlessly, her face a mess from a combination of their various fluids, her messy bun of hair finally destroyed, wild waves of white hair cushioning her head. She stared at him with parted lips from between the frame of her knees.

“No,” he growled as he squatted down over her, practically pinning her by the thighs. She squirmed as she felt his cock rub up against her mewling quim, still sensitive from her orgasm and flushed far darker than the rest of her fair skin. “Part of being a Witcher. No refractory,” he told her as plain fact, something most men would brag about.

“Oh,” Ciri whispered, her eyes locked on Geralt’s. “...  _ Oh _ . Oh, fuck,” she gasped out, and then again and again as his cock pushed its way into her slick cunt, forcing it wider than any man before Geralt ever had. The way it stretched her was so unbelievably perfect that she was immediately smitten with him, and it kept going and going, filling every inch of Ciri’s little pussy. “Geralt,” she groaned out, reaching up to wrap her arms around his back and scratch at his back through his shirt. “Geralt, your cock-- it’s so fucking  _ perfect _ , oh, fuck me…”

“That’s the plan,” Geralt grunted. Ciri couldn’t help but giggle, but then his cock was pressing against her g-spot and that was anything but a laughing matter. It cut off with a ragged gasp, and on impulse she locked her ankles around his waist, making sure he had nowhere to go but deeper inside of her. If he stopped now, she knew she would go fucking crazy. She closed her eyes, biting down savagely on her bottom lip as he went deeper -- deeper -- so deep that she knew she wouldn’t ever feel Geralt hilt inside her, he was simply too large. 

She had never been so deliciously full before in her life. Ciri released her bottom lip and sucked in a breath, then whispered. “Geralt, fuck me.” He didn’t need to be told once, already beginning to pull out part of the way out of her cunt only to drive himself right back inside of her, each thrust driving the air out of Ciri in a sharp gasp or cry. More and more people were glancing towards their corner of the tavern, some with jealousy and others with knowing grins, but no one was going to interrupt them. Not in the Sin Inn, where those noises were commonplace.

Ciri was sure she was ripping through Geralt’s shirt with his increasing fervent scratches and she was sure she was going to break her ankles with how hard they were locked around him, but none of that mattered. “Just like that,” she beseeched him breathlessly as his pumping cock teased her hungry womb with a direct delivery. “Come on,” she urged him, spurring him on with deeper rends of her short fingernails. “Geralt, fuck me. Fuck me and cum inside me!”

Really, she didn’t need to tell him once, let alone twice. He pounded away at her pussy the same way he fucked any pussy, though Ciri’s hole was by far the tightest and wettest he had ever impaled on his true silver sword. After several more quick thrusts, Geralt let out a raw growl and pushed himself into Ciri’s limit, the crown of his cock brushing her cervix right as he erupted inside of her.

Feeling his thick sperm flood into her womb was the last push Ciri needed to cum again, a shiver running through her body that naturally found its way to her pussy. Her muscles clenched and milked every last drop of cum out of Geralt’s shaft, her legs squeezing him hard enough that he was going to have bruises in the morning, just like she would. Not that either of them minded that; those bruises would make for a fond memory of the best fuck of their lives, at least for a few days.

Geralt slowly pulled himself out of Ciri, and though she wanted to cling to his body and keep him locked in place, she found herself feeling boneless and satiated. She let him go, and of course she didn’t resist when he sat back against the booth wall and pulled her around until she was face first with his cock once more, laying on her stomach. Ciri grinned lazily and gazed up at Geralt’s cock for a moment, the mess of cum on her face still sticky and dripping.

“Do you think we can do this every night?” she asked him in a low murmur, raising her calves and lazily kicking them back and forth as she reached for his cock, worshipping its tip with a little kiss before taking the crown into her mouth. She suckled on it in a way that drove most men crazy, a way that had most of them twitching right after an orgasm -- but of course  _ fucking Geralt _ , the greatest Witcher in history, seemed immune to that. She found some gratification in how intent he grew, though.

Ciri resolved to find his weakness. She wouldn’t find it tonight, she was sure of that, but over time, she was sure she would. She’d find a way to conquer the glorious old bastard’s cock and body.

“Depends,” Geralt drawled as he sat back, stretching his legs comfortably and lowering his hand to encourage Ciri to take his ever-hard cock just that little bit deeper into her mouth. “Do you think you can beat me in Gwent every night?” he asked her, his brows raising just a hair apiece.

As much as Ciri wanted to pop her lips off his cock and tell him to fuck off, her desire to suck his glorious cock and get another load of his hot mutant cum was far greater. She snorted through her nostrils and closed her eyes, setting to work without another word.

The succubus had the last laugh indeed, but neither of them would have complained if they knew what drove them to fuck that night -- or for every night that followed. They were destined for one another. 

**Author's Note:**

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